Disclaimer: not owning a single thing, obviously.
Sherlock woke up, and for a moment he felt sure it had all been a wondrous dream. It wouldn't have been the first time. Only it was warm – uncharacteristically so. Not that he complained, his muscles still felt like molten lead (he never really woke up before a good dose of caffeine) and so he instinctively burrowed towards its source. Only when his so very warm cushion sighed, the sleuth realised it was John.
This was no dream. John had truly taken the initiative and – finally – made love to him. Or…had sex with him. His lover had been eager, passionate, and earth-shatteringly (and mind-palace shatteringly…if only for a while, luckily for Lestrade) wonderful. For all the sexual endeavours they'd got up to in the past weeks, nothing had been so intense. And now… now John was still here, he hadn't retired to his own bedroom, the way he still did when their trysts were under the guise of scientific research.
Fighting the urge to just nuzzle him and fall back asleep, the sleuth blinked, eyes burning, and observed. True, he'd seen John asleep before, when either work or drawn-out cases (or a combination of both) made him fall asleep on his chair, on the sofa, or – on one memorable occasion – at the table, during one of their post-case very late dinners, his head inside the plate (thankfully they'd not opted for a warm dish). His blogger had been woken by Sherlock's Homeric laugh – but after watching together no less than six times the video of a kitten falling asleep at his food bowl, the likeness had been too perfect (and adorable) for the detective not to guffaw.
All these times had been uncomfortable for John though – he was literally falling asleep on his feet, and would wake up cranky and possibly stiff. And there had been no occasion to spy him in bed before – soldier's instinct keeping him low-level aware and waking him immediately when the detective entered his room to announce a sudden breakthrough or a new case. This was John properly asleep, not just exhausted. Which was why it was so essential Sherlock record it. There was no certainty he would have another chance, after all.
John was dreaming – it was evident in the somehow shallow breathing and fluttering eyelashes, which was making the sleuth's instinctive desire to count them rather difficult to achieve. It didn't seem to be a nightmare, luckily, because his beloved exhibited no sign of distress. The consulting detective couldn't help but wish he could actually read minds, like his blogger had often joked. Being so close and yet unaware of what his love was feeling was so frustrating.
The detective considered waking his love up. After all, being awakened mid-dream was the best situation for remembering it, and being intimate to the most free and private inner workings of John's brain was so tempting. But the doctor had lost enough sleep on his account since they met. Besides, a study had found out people who woke mid-dream would have a lower feeling of self-worth afterwards. John was the most awesome human being ever born, and there was no way Sherlock would ever do anything which compromised the chance of him realizing that.
Despite all his attempts to stay awake and keep up his close scrutiny, a few minutes later the sleuth's own eyes felt unable to stay open, and he laid his head down back on John's chest, so that his love's heartbeat could lull him back to sleep. It was the most beautiful sound in the universe.
The next time Sherlock came to himself, there was a hand in his curls, gently massaging. "Mmmm?" he mumbled, half in pleasure and half in puzzlement.
"Good morning, sleepyhead," John said, voice rough with sleep. "Sorry, you were too tempting. I couldn't help myself."
Not all of the detective's neurons were functioning yet, but he was conscious enough to recognise the word 'tempting'. "Do you want…something?" he replied, not capable yet of deducing which particular activity his beloved would be in the mood for.
"Right now, just breakfast, though I'd like to keep my options open for later. Are you in the mood for tea or coffee, love?" his blogger replied fondly, a smile in his voice.
Sherlock physically startled, almost throwing John out of the bed. "What did you say?" he asked, voice choked.
"Tea or coffee, Sherlock. What's wrong with you? Usually the question doesn't warrant such an… intense reaction," his beloved repeated slowly, a searching look in his eyes, clearly doctor mode immediately on.
"Not that," the sleuth replied, irritated, waving away the trivial question. "What did you say, exactly?" He half-raised on his elbows, peering down at him. Looming over John might not be very effective – the blond long desensitised to people trying to get their way with that trick – but it was still instinct to try.
His blogger frowned, trying to remember the casual sentence. "I said, right now, just breakfast," he started, slowly.
"Not that. The following sentence," the detective cut in, annoyed. Sherlock was tempted to turn his back on him and sulk, to punish him for being purposefully slow (it had to be on purpose!), if the matter wasn't so fundamental.
John frowned harder. That's what he had repeated in the first place, hadn't he? What had spooked Sherlock like that? He unconsciously licked his lips to help focus. "I said, are you in the mood for tea or coffee, love? And I still haven't had an answer to that." He smiled.
"Coffee, if you must, but the sheer fact that you don't seem to notice anything odd in your words is puzzling. I mean, I'm not an expert, but shouldn't your oxytocin levels be back to normal after a whole night? You can't exactly blame them for your lapsus linguae, can you?" Sherlock retorted, petulant, hating that he was breaching the subject but needing the clarity. Why couldn't he let himself enjoy the slip of tongue?
"Uhm…No, it wasn't the oxytocin talking. But it isn't the first time I used a pet name for you, is it? Did you chalk all of them to…hormones?" the doctor wondered, sounding suddenly sad.
Why was John sad? It made no sense. But above all, why did he have to ruin everything every time, the sleuth wondered. No matter how much he loved people, he always hurt them. At least when hurting strangers he didn't regret that – not for more than a moment, at least. His silence was already too long, though. He needed to fix this – now. "Well, yes, I…assumed. I mean, why would you… but you'd never used love, so. I'm sorry. It…took me off guard" he admitted, mumbling a bit.
"Why?" his beloved echoed, flabbergasted and still rather heartbroken. It appeared that the detective's poor attempt at fixing had been a total failure. "Do you really mean…you don't know? Or mayhap… would you prefer if it wasn't true?"
"I'm afraid you've lost me there, John. What am I supposed to know?" the consulting detective inquired, physically deflating and slipping down, almost burying himself into the mattress. Had he missed things? Hurt John by missing them? Mycroft was right. He was stupid.
"That I am in love with you, obviously," John said, a somehow tremulous smile on his lips but voice clear. "Did you think… did you want this… thing between us to be just messing around?"
Sherlock didn't reply to that, at all, and the more seconds passed the more John was tempted to scream in sheer frustration. The detective was blinking…again and again. Before his lover gave up and either shouted or shook him, to get a reaction – any reaction – out of him, the sleuth uttered a somehow strangled, wordless cry. Shock and incredulity and elation all rolled into one. He cleared his throat and echoed, awkward, " You…love me?!"
"Yup. I mean…come on, Sherlock, you must have known! What did you think we were?" His beloved retorted, now less heartbroken and more frustrated. The consulting detective practically read minds! Was he expected to believe he'd been too enigmatic for Sherlock Holmes?
"I…wasn't sure. I mean, you don't seem to have very strict standards for bedding people, and this could have been…scientific curiosity on your part, experimentation, or even…gluttony…" the sleuth muttered against his pillow. He'd told himself so many times to take what he could and not yearn for more (uselessly, of course). Not to see things that could be just a reflex of his own heart. And now his blogger was scolding him for being blind and slow. How could he just assume feelings, when fleeting hormones could so easily influence one's attitude?
"Oh. So I'm kind of a slag and more of a hog than Mycroft. Nice to know the good opinion you have of me," John grumbled, sitting on the bed, back to him and feet on the ground – ready to leave. What if he didn't come back?
"No!" Sherlock screamed, throwing himself at him. He hugged his beloved's back in supplication and vehemently shook his head, curls rhythmically caressing John's naked shoulders. "I'm in love with you too," he admitted in a croak, "That's why I found every excuse for your behaviour but love… because if I let myself believe you did have feelings for me, and I turned out to be wrong, it'd kill me, John. Don't go, please!"
With some difficulty, given how tight the detective was holding him, John managed to turn in his embrace. "So…you do love me, too? I know you hate repetition, but just checking I'm not hallucinating," he asked, almost airily.
The sleuth didn't seem to have the breath to answer him properly, so he just nodded wildly.
"We're a pair of idiots, you know? We've loved each other so long, and you tried so hard to doubt me, and right now I was sure all your scenes meant you'd never loved me. Christ, we trust each other with our lives, and we can't imagine being loved. This has to stop now, love," his beloved declared.
Sherlock couldn't help himself. Giddy on feelings (so many feelings, suddenly allowed to be – allowed out of the walls he'd built so carefully for decades), he quipped, "Is that an order, Captain?"
"You bet," John replied. He took advantage of the fact that, without panic to make them rigid, Sherlock's arms had relaxed, to actually get up from the bed, take a step away and then turn and wink. "Coffee in five for his highness."
His lover's elated laugh followed him to the kitchen.